


Forgive Me, Father

by misszeldasayre



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Punisher (Comics), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Religious Guilt, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23384602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misszeldasayre/pseuds/misszeldasayre
Summary: After disappearing for several months, Frank returns to New York and seeks out Father Lantom for confession. Leave it to Karen to turn up at Clinton Church, ready to confess something, too. Set between The Punisher Seasons 1 and 2.
Relationships: Frank Castle & Karen Page, Frank Castle/Karen Page
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	Forgive Me, Father

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been five years since my last confession and I accuse myself of the following sins."

Suspended in half-darkness behind the lace-wood screen, Frank inhabits another world, one that hangs between earth and heaven. Or heaven and hell—he's not quite sure. But in that liminal space, with just him and the good father's voice, the sins and sunrises of his past take on a distance he can't manage when it's just him and his thoughts alone at night.

"It killed me to hurt a brother, but he was supposed to protect my family and he… he sold 'em out."

For a moment, a shuffling sound on the other side of the screen is the priest's only reply. Frank himself shifts uneasily, knees pressed against the far wall of the booth. The confessional isn't built for a man his size. Churches aren't built for men like him. Then the father speaks, and Frank forgets the way the hard wooden seat sends a twinge through his back.

"Why do burden yourself with these things? It's not your weight to bear."

Frank thinks of his wife and kids, gushing blood too fast for him to staunch, and the guttural howl escaping his mouth, hanging over the scene.

So he speaks to the priest in a language he can understand: "'Saith the Lord: and shall not my soul be avenged on such a nation as this?'"

"The Lord also said, 'To me belongeth vengeance, and recompense; their foot shall slide in due time: for the day of their calamity is at hand.'"

Frank knows that scripture by heart. He studied it, wrestled with it before leaving the cloth and donning a black flak vest. If God dares not show his face, then who will act as his destroying angels? It's Frank's burden to bear, his justice to mete. "I'm not asking for forgiveness, Father."

"What exactly are you doing?"

"I'm asking for understanding."

"With understanding comes forgiveness."

"I got nothing I need to repent for."

The priest hesitates. "My son, everyone needs God's mercy."

"What happens when I don't want it?" He will answer for his sins, just as he forces others to answer to the demands of justice. Someday justice will come for him, and he'll go down swinging. Until then, even then, he will not beg for mercy.

His religion is vengeance; his flaming sword, a SIG-Sauer rifle. His god demands flesh. Frank worships with blood sacrifice.

"You don't want it?" the shadow of Father Lantom muses. Frank strains to see his expression through the latticework. "Then God will wait until you do."

Frank's scoff echoes in the darkness. Wiping his palms, he prepares to leave. Then he finds it: that familiar sense of guilt closing around his throat.

"I also hurt a… close friend. Not like the others." He recalls the night in the diner where he sat across from Karen as she explained that people who break others can't be part of her life. Though her words were meant for Red, he knows they apply to him, too. "Says she doesn't want trouble. I don't wanna bother her. I need to keep her safe. Best way to do that is to stay outta her way."

"You know," Father Lantom begins after a pause, "this man used to come here every so often for confession. He had the same sort of dilemma—should he continue down a path he's chosen at the risk of hurting his loved ones? For him, everything was black and white, as Catholicism might very well be. But to me, I saw a lot of grey."

The edge of the chair digs into Frank's thighs. "What did you tell him?"

"I told him you're not giving them enough credit, those people you love. If they really love you, they'll love you despite what you do and because of what you choose."

"Did they love him?"

"They did, they still do. When someone cares for you, there's not much you can do to talk them out of it."

His confession is over. There is no prayer of absolution, no Father, Son and the Holy Ghost descending upon Frank to pronounce him clean. He's dirty, and he knows that. But the mere act of confession, even without redemption, has lightened his soul. His boots squeak against the polished wood floor as he thanks the father and exits the booth, blinking at the brightness.

A few last fleeting rays of sunlight stream through the stained glass that line the walls of the church. Rows of red candles stacked like sentries guarding the living cornerstone of Christ at the head of the church. Something familiar about this little red chapel tucked away in Hell's Kitchen compels Frank to sink into a pew and sit awhile. He's feeling calm, a sensation that's eluded him for so many years. He takes in the gilded candlesticks, the crosses and fringed cloth draped over the altar, the lamps dangling from the vaulted ceiling.

All this candles and altar shit. Frank chuckles as he remembers a young version of himself, backing out of the seminary and running straight into the army's arms. He wasn't made for black robes.

The chapel doors open for a churchgoer; all the cold of a New York winter rushes in. Frank shivers—must be snowing again—and pulls up his hood against the draft. As he peers over his shoulder, he spots her: blond hair, black coat with a red lining, walking into the confession booth he just left. He swings back around to face the altar, hoping he remains unnoticed.

Distantly he hears her greet the priest: "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…"

It's not that Frank intends to eavesdrop. It's just that the chapel is empty, save for himself, Father Lantom, and Karen. The conversation is too muffled for him to make out every word, yet every so often phrases drift out of the booth and into his eager ears.

It's been too long since he's heard her speak. Frank tries to distract himself by examining the stained glass depictions of saints and sinners. But he keeps coming back to her voice. It sounds like home.

"… and he wouldn't let me go…"

Is she talking about him? Suddenly, Frank strains to hear the confession, a man hoping to hear a whisper from his patron saint. He bows his head and prays to whatever waits for him below, begging to catch every word falling from the lips he's dreamed of for so many months.

Mercifully, Karen's voice cuts through the silence of the chapel. The smoke sputters from the red candles surrounding the altar. "… He said he'd kill them all one by one, and make me watch…"

She's not talking about Frank. He never did something like that to Karen, but the thought of someone threatening her like that draws Frank's hands from folded into fists.

"Seven shots… I fired into his torso… The clip ran out…"

The wooden backrest digs into his spine, but Frank dares not shift his position for fear of missing a word. Did Karen kill a man?

"He crumpled like all the life spilled out of him in that moment. I watched him die, Father. I watched, and I did nothing to stop it."

Frank waits for the father's reply, but all that he hears in that pause before Karen speaks again is the sound of his lungs heaving for understanding.

"I haven't been able to forgive myself for…" Her confession fades to a quiet hum, and Frank's left considering the ripples in the stained glass, the blisters on his palms, the tissue-thin pages of the Bible spread open by his side. The darkness he's sensed in Karen unfolds before him, and he's left clutching at the woman he thought he knew.

"My daughter," Lantom sighs. "The—"

The thick church doors open, hinges squeaking in protest, cutting off the father's reply. His murmur is lost in the shuffle of snow boots against wood flooring, and a patron dusted in snow sits in a pew opposite Frank, waiting for their own opportunity to confess.

Frank strains to face forward as he hears footsteps from the confession booth and catches a glimpse of the newcomer standing to meet the priest. He hadn't meant to stay this long. He should've left while Karen was occupied. His feet beg to turn, flee, but standing now would only draw attention to himself. She won't recognize him from the back, just another worshipper with broad shoulders and a beanie. He'll wait until he hears the doors slam shut, and then she'll be safe. Safe from the pain he brings into her life.

But the doors don't slam. He hears a sharp intake of breath, soft footfalls, and then she's there—really there.

"Frank?" With his name comes a thousand unspoken questions: what are you doing here, why are you here, why did you leave? Under the weight of her confusion, he tenses, but the questions he expects don't come. She stands at his side, and it's all he can do not to turn to her, hold her, beg her to forgive him.

"Didn't peg you as the religious sort," Frank says as she slides onto the bench beside him.

"I came here when Matt died," she replies tersely, folding her hands and casting her eyes down. It's clear he's touched on a sore spot.

"Happened months ago."

"Yeah, and it's been months since you left." A huff of frustration, and her shoulders slump, anger seeping out of her skin and into the pew. "I guess I just keep coming back. Sometimes if I strain hard enough, I can feel him here."

The red devil in the Lord's chapel. Almost as ironic as the Punisher studying to be a priest.

Karen's got her tongue between her teeth, that intense concentration etched across her face. "Why did you wait for me?"

It's been years since he first quaked at the terrible idea of an omniscient god, but old habits die hard. Lying in a church would be a sick joke. "I had to see you."

"You can come by anytime." Frank just grips his knuckles in reply. They wait, the only sound the occasional mumble from the confession booth. When Karen speaks next, her voice is a low hum in Frank's ear. "Were you listening?"

He snorts, shaking his head. "Kinda," he admits, and he watches her blanch.

"So you heard."

"I heard a lot of things, praying here."

She grits her teeth and leans in. "Stop screwing with me. It may not sound like a big deal to you since you… you do it all the time without blinking an eye, but it-it fucked me up, Frank."

What's there left to do but nod? He understands. "Look, I-I wouldn't judge you. If it was up to me, I'd say you made the right call. Put 'em down before the bastards can get you."

When she swallows, her whole body shudders. "Matt never knew. Maybe he would've… maybe he would've still loved me even if he did."

It's a kick to Frank's ribs, but he's not going to lie. "Maybe."

The candles flicker as the chapel doors swing open and closed. The confession booth grows silent behind them.

"Remember all that crap I said about leaving people out of your life who damage you?" Karen asks. A silly question: Frank can't forget. "What if you're the one doing the damaging?" She starts sniffling something fierce and Frank has no choice but to scoop her up and hold her as she weeps.

The only rag in his pocket is for polishing his guns, so he offers her his sleeve, and the sight of her dampening his cuffs makes them laugh the desperate laugh of people who long to feel something other than sadness. When she pulls back, they catch Father Lantom watching them as he straightens the lace tablecloth and silver candlesticks on the altar. So they drop to their knees on the little velvet cushions and stay quiet until he moves along into the back rooms of the chapel.

"Shit, I've _missed_ you, Frank."

"Not in a church." He winks, watching her roll her eyes.

"Says the man who's killed enough people to fill these pews."

"Just doing the devil's job for him while he's away," he says and both of them know he's not talking about religion.

Her head sags for a moment at the mention of Matt. "Hell's Kitchen is lucky to have you watching out for it."

"And you fighting for it." He brushes her shoulder, a lingering touch, before clasping his hands again.

For a while, they sit there in silence. Frank's sure he's never prayed as hard as he does now. _Give me one more chance to make things right with her and I'll never let go._

When she raises her head, lays her palm over his knotted fingers, he doesn't move. Doesn't wrap his hands around hers. Just soaks in her warmth. Frank knows he's been forgiven. An act of mercy.

The chapel is quiet—the candles burning low, Father Lantom in the back, the last few worshippers trickling out the door as the bells chime six. Frank glances around the chapel before clearing his throat.

"Almost became a priest myself. Entered the seminary straight outta high school." At this, Karen chokes back a snort. "I know, I know. Heard it all from my platoon. The thing is, I thought I knew what God wanted. Clean hands and a pure heart. But cleaning dirty hearts is hard. Takes more than a couple Hail Marys. Sometimes God takes an eye for an eye, a life for a life. Some things you can't get forgiven for."

Her touch is ice now, but she doesn't flinch. Frank kicks himself for opening his mouth until her thumb brushes his knuckles.

"New York's better off because of you." She flushes pink, examining the hymnal in her lap. "I'm glad you're not a priest."

He cracks a grin, too eager, but he can't stop it. "Me too. Vow of chastity and all. That's a lot to ask from a man."

Karen raises her eyebrows. "I meant because of your… skills with weapons."

"That's one way to put it." He can't help himself—they're in a church, for Chrissake—but for the first time in a long time, the words flow easy between them.

He stoops from his kneeling position and sinks heavily onto the bench. She's still on her knees, palms pressed together and eyes cast heavenward, lips moving as if in the act of praying. But she's whispering things that are only for Frank to hear.

"When I stand up, I'm going to walk out the doors of this church, make a left, and head all the way home. Are you coming?"

He hopes God's not listening. "I'll follow you anywhere, ma'am."

* * *

Next week, Frank cheerfully adds the sin of fornication to his confession. Father Lantom simply smiles and says, "Frank? Can I offer you a latte?"


End file.
